ghosts

(self portrait by a ghost...)

the sacrifice and the reward. the golden hour awaits. drunken ghosts. abandoned chickens, wandering aimlessly. the random pair of new balance sitting idle on the log. huge, fuzzy deer antlers sticking up out of the grass while the head they sit on lay hidden within it. the lost sleep means nothing once the experience has begun. the morning sharpening the haze of too much willie, george dickel and loud talk of the previous nights debauchery and discussion. the alibis relayed to wives of the visiting drunkards are akin to a note safety pinned on a kindergartners shirt for his teacher. they sleep. i thump the dirt. they lay idle, like the shoes on the log. i move like the snow melting off the mountain peaks. but, i'm moving. i'll pick up speed, eventually and become part of something bigger; the flow of. it. all.